


Old Wounds, New Wounds, and Blanket Forts

by lazyfox411



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background/Implied Grimmons, Blanket Forts, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Red vs Blue Secret Santa, Tuckington - Freeform, Whump, blood and hospital settings, red vs blue secret santa 2019, tuckington is main focus everybody else is just there to move the plot along lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21963979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyfox411/pseuds/lazyfox411
Summary: Tucker and Wash have a lot of feelings they avoid. But it's harder to ignore your feelings when the person you feel for keeps almost dying.
Relationships: Dexter Grif & Lavernius Tucker, Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Lavernius Tucker/Agent Washington
Comments: 4
Kudos: 89





	Old Wounds, New Wounds, and Blanket Forts

**Author's Note:**

> Red vs Blue secret santa 2019 fic for mlmbenvolio on tumblr!!!! Merry Christmas!!! Or other holiday you celebrate. Or if you're reading this and don't celebrate any holidays, then I hope you just have a good day :)

Spending the morning in full armor with Donut, the lieutenants, and a handful of other Chorus soldiers is not exactly what Tucker would call ideal. But Kimball asked him to, and it’s his responsibility as a captain to ensure his men are keeping their skills honed. And okay, maybe he kind of wants to impress Wash, who is across the training field doing his own workout, bright sunlight glinting off his armor. They’ve been stuck in the limbo of Definitely-Friends-But-Maybe-Something-More for a while now, and while the last thing Tucker wants to do is mess it up, he can’t help but wish for something more.

  
A small explosion snaps Tucker out of his thoughts. Oh. Right. He’s supposed to be helping his soldiers practice throwing explosives. Donut is currently lecturing them on safety, and Tucker is supposed to be prepared to spot them and give pointers as they start throwing. Technically, they already know how to do this, but Kimball’s asked the captains to give some of the soldiers a more...formal training, since the demands of the civil war may have rushed some of their initial training for the sake of having more soldiers on the field, professional or not.

  
“Looking good, you guys! Almost ready to blow!” Donut calls as Tucker moves down the line, adjusting stances and tweaking throwing angles.  
“Plant your foot a little farther back,” Tucker says quietly, nudging a private’s toe with his boot. The action reminds him of endless training sessions he’s had with Wash, and he finds his mind drifting again, to Wash’s hands on his hips, Wash’s voice in his ear, “ _Relax. If you’re too tense, you aren’t getting your full range of motion_.” He remembers the thrilling sense of accomplishment as his knife flew into the target. Remembers the genuine smile on Wash’s face. “ _Well done, Tucker._ ”

  
“Like this?” the private asks.

  
“Yeah,” Tucker says distractedly, “yeah, like that.”

  
Donut continues to drone on about safety, with enough innuendos mixed in to make Tucker regret all his life choices that led him to this exact moment. Wash hasn’t even looked his way.

  
“You always have to call it when you throw it,” Donut is explaining, “so that your teammates know to take cover. Like this. Grenade!” he hollers, tossing one over the short wall in front of them in a smooth arc. Everyone ducks down for the following blast.

  
“Alright, Palomo, why don’t you try next?” Donut asks cheerily.

  
It happens almost in slow motion. Palomo primes the grenade. He steps forward. It leaves his hand.

  
It doesn’t clear the wall.

  
“Everybody get back!” Tucker shouts, shoving at them to move, get out of the way. Palomo is still too close to where the grenade has bounced back towards them off the wall. Before he even registers what he’s doing, Tucker is rushing forward. He shoves Palomo away and makes a frantic dive for the grenade, throwing it as hard and far as he can manage before scrambling back.

  
It explodes in the air and Tucker is forced to the ground by the blast. He hits the dirt, hard. It’s loud, louder than anything he’s ever heard, even Caboose’s ‘whisper voice’. Everything is muffled for a moment as dust settles around him before the ringing starts in his ears.

  
In Tucker’s defense, he did suggest they use practice grenades.

  
Donut’s hovering at his side in an instant. Tucker flaps a hand to wave him off, trying to get his bearings.

  
“I’m fine,” he coughs, feeling like he’s underwater. He shoves himself to his feet and shakes the dust off his armor.

  
Palomo still has his helmet on, but Tucker, despite the ringing in his ears, can practically hear his tears as he cries, “I’m so sorry, Captain Tucker, oh my god, I’m so sorry! The sun was in my eyes!”

  
Tucker waves him off, too, fixated now on Wash, who is stalking across the field towards him.

  
“That was pretty badass, huh?” Tucker says once Wash gets closer. He should probably feel terrified that he just almost died, or relief that he didn’t, but he figures that will come later, after the adrenaline’s worn off. Right now he’s trying to keep his hands from shaking.

  
Wash continues towards him in quick, powerful strides, and he isn’t slowing down.

  
“What in the _hell_ were you thinking?” Wash screams.

  
That...was not the reaction Tucker was expecting.

  
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Wash is in his face now, hands waving, close enough that if Tucker moves an inch forward, the gold visors of their helmets will be touching.

  
“ _Woah_ ,” Tucker says. He places his hands on Wash’s armored chest and firmly pushes him back a step. “Wash, what is your problem?”

  
“My problem? My _problem_?”

  
Tucker can imagine the way Wash is gaping incredulously under that helmet.

  
“You almost just got yourself killed and you don’t see the issue there?”

  
“But I didn’t get killed, and I probably just saved Palomo’s life,” Tucker protests, “doesn’t that count for anything?”

  
“That’s not how it works! I can’t believe you!”

  
“I didn’t do anything!” Tucker shouts. “I’m sick of you blaming me for everything!”

  
“Has it ever occurred to you,” Wash tilts his helmet closer, voice taking the gravelly, dangerous tone that means he’s pissed off, “that I’m only blaming you because it’s your fault?”

  
“ _What_?” Tucker sputters. “My fault? Palomo has the throwing arm of a newborn hamster, how is that my fault?”

“You’re supposed to be watching them!”

  
“They’re lieutenants! They’re supposed to be able to do this stuff in a real battle, we aren’t going to be there to hold their hands on the field! It was an accident, Wash!”

  
Wash sighs, and his shoulders drop from their defensive stance. “An accident that could have killed you,” he says, voice low.

  
“We fight people, with guns, every day,” Tucker says in exasperation. “Almost dying is part of the job. We both do it, and yeah, it sucks, but why are you freaking out now about a training accident?”

  
“Because I don’t want you to get blown up.”

  
“And I don’t want me to get blown up either, but I also don’t want you on my ass for every little thing that happens.”

  
Wash hesitates, glancing at the ground before sighing again in defeat. “I had to watch every member of my old squad get blown sky-high. I don’t want to see it happen to you, too.”

  
Wash doesn’t talk about Freelancer very often. Only when he has to, and even then, he’s guarded. Tucker doesn’t know any more than anyone else knows, except Carolina. But he knows Wash took care of the bodies. He was there for Agent South Dakota. He understands, finally, what Wash must have felt seeing another squad member almost explode.

  
He knows this, but yet he still wishes Wash would get off his back every once in a while.

  
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Tucker tells him.

  
“I know. I’m sorry.”

  
This is different. Usually they argue a whole lot more before either of them get to the ‘I’m sorry’ part.

  
“What is up with you, man?” Tucker asks. “You marched over here to yell at me, and now you’re apologizing? And you never even asked if I’m okay, which, I am, even though you obviously weren’t wondering.”

  
It’s a feeble attempt to regain normalcy. Something must be wrong with Wash, he should still be angry right now. Not that Tucker wants to see him angry, of course not, but the spiral of emotions Wash just displayed was more than he has in the last three weeks. If Tucker can bring some normal back, maybe Wash will snap out of it and realize he’s acting strange and maybe they need to talk something out. Wash needs to realize these things on his own, Tucker has learned, because he won’t believe you if you tell him outright that something seems off.

  
Wash sighs again, defeated. “I am glad you’re okay. I’ll leave you alone now.” He nods somewhere to Tucker’s right, which is exactly how Tucker realizes that Donut and all the other soldiers have been watching the entire scene.

  
“Get back to work,” Tucker barks, feeling his face heat with embarrassment. He’s glad he’s wearing a helmet.

  
When he turns around again, Wash is gone.

  
Tucker doesn’t try to find him. They both need to cool down.

  
He and Donut continue the explosives demonstration without further incident, and the blasts fade into the general hustle and hubbub of Chorus, mixing with shouting and vehicles, guns on the firing range, aircraft coming and going.

  
They’re just about to wrap up the training session when the hubbub turns to a commotion, prompted by the landing of a Pelican ship. There’s nothing different about it that Tucker can see, but people are rushing to it with an urgency usually reserved for emergencies. Among them, he realizes with a sick feeling creeping into his stomach, are medics.

  
The lieutenants are curious, peering towards the ship and asking questions, taking tentative steps towards what looks like the outcome of a mission gone wrong.

  
"Stay here," Tucker orders them, because he knows these kids, knows that as soon as something even moderately different or interesting happens in their dry, military regimented lives, they all flock towards it like moths to a flame.

  
Tucker gets a certain amount of respect now as a captain, and he uses it to march to the front of the crowd and see what’s going on. Stretchers are being carried off the ship, medics are checking people over.

  
“Get your asses out of the way!” Orange and maroon hurry down the loading ramp, each carrying the end of a stretcher.

  
Both Grif and Simmons’ armor is covered in blood, but they seem fine. Tucker freezes when he sees the source of the blood. Laid on the stretcher, wheezing for breath and weakly reaching out for something, anything, is Wash.

  
Tucker runs after them through the halls to the medical wing.

  
“What the hell happened?” he demands. “Wash wasn’t scheduled for any missions today, what was he doing out on the field with you?”

  
“Dude asked to come last minute,” Grif pants, “looked like he needed to blow off some steam so Kimball said yes.”

  
“Two gunshot wounds,” Simmons says, as if that’s supposed to help Tucker feel better, “one to the chest and the other in his abdomen.”

  
There’s a lot of blood, too much blood, seeping through even though they’ve covered the wounds. Tucker grabs Wash’s hand as the stretcher is passed off to the medical team, but Doctor Grey stops him from following into surgery with a firm hand on his chest and a pointed look.

  
Wash went out on a mission to blow off steam, Tucker thinks in a panic, pacing the waiting room floor. The only reason he would have done that was because they were arguing. This is all my fault, Tucker thinks.

  
He keeps pacing, just trying to keep pulling air into his lungs, until he realizes he probably looks like a crazy person to all the other people in the waiting area. So he forces himself into an uncomfortable chair, sitting rigid with his gloved hands folded tightly under his chin, boot tapping heavily on the floor.

  
The other people milling about medical slowly filter out, providing less and less distraction and making it easier for Tucker to get lost in his own head. This doesn’t feel real. He hopes it isn’t. He knows it is.

  
Tucker is vaguely aware that someone sits down next to him. It takes a few seconds for his brain to register orange coloured armour, spattered with blood. Grif. Grif was there, Grif was trying to save him. Tucker feels some mix of gratitude for Grif, and shame he wasn’t there himself.

  
Tucker tries to say something to him, he’s honestly not sure what, but all that comes out is a high pitched keening noise, like a dying animal. He clamps a hand over his mouth and takes a deep breath.

  
“What are you doing here?” he manages.

  
Grif shrugs. “I know how much it sucks to wait alone,” he says simply.

  
Tucker thinks of the last time Simmons was in the hospital, how Grif had slouched in a chair and hadn’t moved a muscle until a nurse came to get him, how his eyes had looked empty and glassy, how he’d refused to leave, to focus on anything else other than Simmons for even a tenth of a second. Thinking of Wash in surgery behind those swinging doors, Tucker suddenly understands a lot better.

  
He wants to tell Grif thank you, but he doesn’t think he can open his mouth without making some embarrassingly pathetic sound again. Grif being here is probably the only thing that’s keeping him from breaking down and crying, Tucker thinks, and he’s thankful for that.

* * *

  
Doctor Grey’s face is somber when she brings them the news, and Tucker fears the worst. But Wash will live, she tells him, barring any complications he’ll recover just fine. Tucker nearly faints with relief. Grif steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, and then he’s gone too.

  
“Can I see him?” Tucker asks the doctor. She nods, and leads him into the wards.

  
Wash looks like shit. There's a tube down his throat, and a million other wires and lines connecting his body to various machines situated around the bed. His skin is ashy and pale, and his hair is plastered to his forehead in a mess of dried sweat and blood. Tucker feels sick just looking at him. He can't pull his eyes away.

  
"Wash?" he whispers, tentatively approaching the bed. He barely recognizes his own voice, he sounds so hoarse and broken.

  
Wash isn't awake. His eyes remain peacefully closed, chest rising and falling gently with the whir of machines and rhythmic blips of the heart monitor.

  
_This is wrong_ , Tucker thinks as he pulls up a chair at Wash's bedside. All the other times Wash has had to come to the medical wing after a mission, he's been conscious, a little banged up, but okay, griping that he's fine, really, and complaining that the nurses won't just clear him already. Tucker knows that Wash hates hospitals. Knows that it's because of Freelancer. Because of Epsilon. And now Wash is stuck in the hospital. And it's all Tucker's fault.

  
Wash looks so small. Tucker feels smaller.

  
“Why did you get on that ship?” Tucker mutters, knowing full well Wash can’t hear him. “You reckless idiot, you’re not allowed to lecture me about being careful ever again.”

  
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Doctor Grey says softly. “Call if you need anything.”

  
Sitting there in the rickety wooden chair next to Wash’s bed, the exhaustion hits him. All his armor just feels so heavy now, so he unclasps all the pieces on his upper body and tosses them in a pile on the floor. Then he leans back and settles in for a long wait.

  
A nurse comes in after some time, and they unhook all the wires and monitors. Wash is stable now, they tell Tucker, it’s okay to remove all the equipment. They take the wires of the heart monitor off of him, and the machine lets out a steady, shrill tone now that it no longer has a heartbeat to follow. Tucker shivers, grateful when the nurse yanks the power cord from the wall. The sound still haunts him, even as he dozes off.

* * *

  
The noise of rustling sheets wakes him. Wash is coming to.

  
"Wash? Wash, can you hear me?"

  
"Ngh," Wash mumbles, head lolling listlessly.

  
Tucker places a tentative hand on his arm. Wash doesn't flinch or pull away, so he takes it as a good sign. "Wash?"

  
Wash lets out a distressed whine, and the muscles of his arm tense under Tucker's hand.

  
"It's okay," Tucker murmurs, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he finds his hand smoothing back Wash’s hair. “Shh, Wash, you’re okay.”

  
The crease in Wash’s forehead slowly unfurrows, and he relaxes against the pillows.

  
“There you go,” Tucker whispers, hand still in Wash’s hair. It’s at that moment he realizes Wash has his eyes open. He draws his hand back. “Oh. You’re awake.”

  
Wash looks up at him blearily, eyes glazed and unfocused. “North?” he says. His voice is totally wrecked, hoarse and cracking.

  
“Uh,” Tucker says. He has no idea what that means.

  
“North?” Wash’s breathing hitches and he winces. He may be awake, but he’s still hurting and confused.

  
“It’s okay,” Tucker repeats for what feels like the thousandth time. He doesn’t care. He’ll say it as many times as he needs to, until Wash knows he’s safe. “You’re safe now. Just rest. You’ll feel better if you rest.”

  
“‘Kay,” Wash mumbles. Then, hesitantly, “Don’t go? Please…”

  
“I’m right here.” Tucker finds Wash’s hand in the pile of blankets and holds onto it, giving a gentle squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  
He thinks he feels Wash weakly squeeze back before the man nods off again.

* * *

  
The next time Wash wakes up, he’s a lot more coherent.

  
“Tucker,” he says. It’s not a question, but there’s confusion in his eyes. “What’re you…”

  
“I didn’t want to leave you,” Tucker tells him. He leaves out the part where Wash practically begged him not to go. He was probably just high off pain meds. Tucker will spare him the embarrassment.

  
“Oh,” Wash says. He looks around the room, down at himself, wearing a flimsy hospital gown. He shifts uncomfortably.

  
Tucker tries to make conversation, but the best he can come up with is, “You kept saying ‘North’ in your sleep. What does that mean?”

  
Wash bites his lip. “When I was in the hospital, after...after Epsilon, North was the only one who came to see me. He’s gone now,” he adds, seemingly as an afterthought.

  
Tucker thinks about how no one else but him has come visit Wash this time. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  
“They didn't deserve what happened to them.” Wash shakes his head gently.

  
Tucker realizes he’s talking about North, about the rest of the Freelancers. “And you did?” he asks.

  
Wash just looks at him, with tired, pained eyes. Tucker’s heart jumps. He just wants to make this all okay, to be a rock for Wash in return for the support Wash has given him. He wants to tell Wash just how much he cares, how much more he wishes they could be. He knows he shouldn’t.

  
_Don’t mess it up_ , he tells himself, this _isn’t the time_ , Wash is still recovering, the last thing he needs is to try to work out feelings for Tucker that he might not even have.

  
“You should rest,” Tucker tells him instead.

  
“You too,” Wash protests. “Sleeping in a chair isn’t good for you. Go get proper sleep.”

“If I go, do you promise you’ll sleep?”

Wash sighs, and half smirks. “I’ll try.”

Tucker leaves reluctantly, but he knows his back will thank him for taking a break from leaning over Wash for hours on end. Back in his own room, it’s empty without Wash, but he’s asleep as soon as he hits the bed.

* * *

  
_There’s fog inside, which is very weird, Tucker thinks, but he doesn’t focus on it too much, instead giving his attention to Wash, asleep in his hospital bed. The heart monitor blips regularly with Wash’s heart as fog swirls around the room. Tucker sighs, and leans forward to brush Wash’s bangs from where they’ve fallen in his face again._

  
_Wash’s eyes fly open a split second before Tucker touches him. His lips part and he makes a last desperate gasp for air, and his heart stops._   
_The monitor lets out a ghostly shriek, and the fog gets thicker._

  
_“Wash? Wash? Nurse!” Tucker screams before the fog curls in tendrils down his throat and he can’t see anything._

  
Tucker wakes in a cold sweat, simultaneously wanting to scream and throw up.

  
He slides out of bed, shaking, and slips into the hall. Visiting hours are long over, and he knows it was only a dream, but he has to check on Wash. He can still hear the shrieking in his ears.

  
Wash is exactly where Tucker left him, staring up at the ceiling. Moonlight leaks through the windows and illuminates the room.

  
“Hey,” Tucker whispers.

  
“Hey,” Wash says. He looks tired. “What’re you doing here? Visiting hours are over.”

  
“I know,” Tucker says, “I still wanted to come see you. I couldn’t sleep.”

  
Wash looks at him knowingly. “Me either.”

  
Tucker takes his place next to Wash’s bed. “How are you doing?”

  
“Alright. Kinda cold,” Wash says, as though it’s no big deal.

  
Tucker looks at the single, flimsy sheet Wash has on his bed, and immediately has an idea.

  
“Wait here,” he tells Wash, even though he knows Wash is probably in too much pain to get up.

  
He sneaks out of the room, past the nurses, and back to the room he and Wash share. He gathers up all the blankets and pillows on their beds. Military issue blankets aren’t the warmest, but enough of them together should work. He opens the footlocker at the end of Wash’s bed and grabs him his favorite sweater, too.

  
Sneaking past the nurses with an armload of bedding is considerably harder, but if anyone does see him, they let him go. Wash chuckles at him as he staggers back into the room and dumps his load on the bed. Tucker helps him pull the sweater over his head and Wash pulls the hood up and stuffs his hands in the pockets.

  
“Blanket forts,” Tucker says matter-of-factly, stacking pillows and arranging blankets, “are the best way to get warm and feel safe.” He sits back in his chair and admires his work. Wash is surrounded in a nest of blankets and pillows, and Tucker has to resist the urge to squeal at how freaking adorable it looks.

  
“Do you wanna share?” Wash asks sheepishly, holding up a blanket.

  
“Hell yeah,” Tucker says.

He curls up next to Wash and holds him close. Wash snuggles deeper into their fortress of pillows, his unshaved face tickling Tucker’s cheek.

  
When Wash’s breathing evens out and his body relaxes, and Tucker is sure he’s asleep, he dares to whisper, “I love you.”

  
He was wrong, Wash is definitely still awake. A sleepy smile spreads across his face, “Love you too, Tucker.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Don't forget to leave a kudos and comment, and come check me out @lazyfox411 on tumblr!


End file.
